Stasimon 2
[Episode]
He set out for Athens, glad to have escaped from the lower world. Come now, children, attend your father to the house. My entering in is fairer in your eyes, I think, than my going out. Oh, take heart,
Heracles
and no more let the tears stream from your eyes; you too, my wife, collect your courage, cease from fear; leave go my robe; for I cannot fly away, nor have I any wish to flee from those I love. Ah! they do not loose their hold, but cling to my garments
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all the more; were you on the razor’s edge of danger? Well, I must lead them, taking them by the hand to draw them after me, my little boats, like a ship when towing; for I too do not reject the care of my children; here all mankind are equal; all love their children, both those of high estate
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and those who are nothing; it is wealth that makes distinctions among them; some have, others want; but all the human race loves its offspring.
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[Choral 1]
Dear to me is youth always, but old age is hanging over my head, a burden heavier
Chorus
than Aetna’s crags, casting its pall of gloom upon my eyes. Oh! never may the wealth of Asia’s kings tempt me
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to barter for houses stored with gold my happy youth, which is in wealth and poverty alike most fair! But old age is gloomy and deadly;
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I hate it; let it sink beneath the waves! Would it had never found its way to the homes and towns of mortal men, but were still drifting on for ever down the wind.
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Had the gods shown discernment and wisdom, as mortals count these things, men would have won youth twice over, a visible mark of worth
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among whomever found, and after death these would have run a double course once more to the sun-light, while the low born would have had a single portion of life;
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and thus would it have been possible to distinguish the good and the bad, just as sailors know the number of the stars amid the clouds. But, as it is, the gods have set no certain boundary
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between good and bad, but time’s onward roll brings increase only to man’s wealth.
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[Choral 2]
Never will I cease to link in one the Graces and the Muses,
Chorus
sweetest union. Never may I live among uneducated boors, but ever may I find a place among the crowned!
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Yes, still the aged singer lifts up his voice of bygone memories: still is my song of the triumphs of Heracles, whether Bromius the giver of wine is near, or the strains of the seven-stringed lyre and the Libyan pipe are rising;
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not yet will I cease to sing the Muses’ praise, my patrons in the dance.
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The maids of Delos raise their song of joy, circling round the temple gates in honor of Leto’s fair son,
the graceful dancer; so I with my old lips will cry aloud songs of joy at your palace-doors, like the swan, aged singer; for there is a good
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theme for minstrelsy; he is the son of Zeus; yet high above his noble birth tower his deeds of prowess, for his toil secured this life of calm for man,
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having destroyed all fearsome beasts.
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